by J. Kenner
“I know.” I’ve been telling myself the same thing since this nightmare began.
The phone rings.
Damien waits, gets the signal from the team, and answers on speaker.
“The southwest corner of Ventura and Laurel Canyon. Your wife stands there. She comes alone.”
I freeze, my attention glued to the phone.
“Eleven-forty-five to one in the morning. They’ll be a sniper on her. I get wind of anybody near the laundry room after the drop—I have even the slightest suspicion that surveilling the laundry or you have thoughts about tracking that money—she gets a bullet in the chest. Everything goes smooth at the laundry, she’ll be fine. You’ll get your daughter back in the morning. You fuck with me in the laundry room—or you send a female cop to the corner or no one shows at all—you never see your little girl again.”
“No.” Damien’s voice is deceptively calm. “I’ll do it. I’ll stand there. Goddammit it, you already have my daughter. Not my wife, too.”
The line, however, is dead.
He turns to me, his eyes haunted.
“I’m doing it,” I say. “What other choice do we have?”
24
“So this is it,” Jamie says, hugging herself. “I get dropping the money, obviously, but for Nikki to just stand on the street like a walking target?” A shiver cuts through her, and she wraps the oversized sweater she’s been wearing tighter around herself. “That’s messed up.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, and I’m pleased with the fact that my voice doesn’t shake. I’m scared, no doubt about that. But not getting Anne back scares me more. So I’m doing this.
I meet Damien’s eyes, and although I see my own fear reflected back, I also see determination and acceptance. He knows as well as I do that I have to do this.
“We’ll have eyes on the whole time,” Quincy says, moving down the length of the conference table to where I’m standing beside Jamie.
Damien’s behind Denise, looking down at her computer monitor. I can’t see it, but I know she’s trying to analyze the voice pattern. Trying to remove the distortion and cut down to the kidnapper’s real voice. It’s a long shot, and no one expects it to work. But we have to try.
Now, Damien looks up sharply, nailing Quincy with a long, hard gaze. “Eyes on? The hell we will. He specifically said that Nikki had to come alone.”
“She will.”
From the opposite end of the table, Ryan taps a monitor. “Traffic cameras. And so far we’ve hacked into three private security feeds in the area. We’re up to about fifty percent coverage of that corner right now. By the drop, I’ll get us above ninety. We’ll have eyes on you, Nikki. We’ll be right there with you.”
They won’t be, I know. If something happens to me, even with the helicopter and men waiting down the block, they couldn’t respond in time. But despite all that, knowing they’ll be able to see me gives me some comfort.
Evelyn’s been sitting on the edge of the sofa, listening to everything. Now, she stands up slowly, looking more exhausted than I’ve ever seen her, like she’s been turned inside out. She looks, I think, the way I feel.
“This is all good,” she says. “But once we have Anne back, how are we going to find the son-of-a-bitch?”
Dallas looks around the room, making eye contact with each of us before answering. “We may not,” he says, his voice flat. He drags his fingers through his choppy hair. “We’re playing this safe. This op is about getting Anne back. That’s the objective. That’s the focus. That little girl, safe and unharmed. And to do that, we play by his rules. And his rules are designed to hide his identity.”
Quincy nods. “Dallas is right. If the goal were capturing our perp, we’d be playing this differently. Hell, even if the goal were locate and capture. But that’s not the goal, because that increases the risk. So you all have to live with the possibility that this son-of-a-bitch will walk. We’ll do what we can, but I’m not going to lie to you.”
I nod. Right now, all I care about is getting Anne. And I know that once she’s home and safe, the entire weight of Damien’s determination and resources will rain down on the bastard. If it’s possible to find him, he’ll be found.
“So now we wait until tonight,” I say.
Ryan nods. “Now we wait.”
“What about suspects?” The question comes from Moira, who is standing in the archway that leads from the living area to the bedrooms. She cocks her head back toward the room. “Lara’s asleep. Gregory is in there with her.”
“It’s a good question,” I say, looking between Damien and Ryan. “What do we know?”
“We’re still watching Marianna,” Ryan says. “She’s sticking close to home, but she bought a burner phone at a drugstore near her place yesterday, and the clerk says she buys them regularly. Not proof. Not even incriminating. But it’s suspicious, and we’re keeping eyes on her.”
“And Eric?” I ask, my stomach in knots. “Anything?”
“We confirmed that he’s strapped for cash. The guy’s running on financial fumes. So that could be a motive. But he’s been in Austin for months, and our perp had time to watch this family and learn routines and habits. So unless he’s working with someone—and he might be—he’s probably exactly who he says he is—a guy who wants his old job back. But we’re not ruling him out yet.”
“Abby,” I say as panic suddenly strikes me. Talk of Eric has reminded me. “The new offices. The interviews. Shit.”
I move off into the kitchen so I can talk without her overhearing the drama going on around us, and although she’s baffled, she agrees to handle the move-in and the interviews by herself, using Travis as necessary. I bite back a smile at that, wondering if working so closely will make things better or worse between them.
“By the way, Brian Crane canceled his interview.”
“Oh.” I think about Brian. About Carl Rosenfeld. And I wonder if Carl held enough of a grudge against me and Damien that he would go after our daughter. “Thanks for telling me,” I say, knowing I’ll pass the info on to the team. “And thanks for handling everything.”
“That’s what partners are for,” she says. “To help out in life’s little emergencies.” She clears her throat. “You can tell me what’s going on, you know.”
No. I really can’t. “I’ll give you the whole scoop when I see you,” I tell her. When Anne is back safe and sound. “Call if you need me.” God knows I’ll be by a phone.
We end the call, and I head back into command central, then stop short when I see Ollie standing there, leaning casually against the back of the sofa his narrowed gaze skimming over the array of computers and phones and other electronic gadgets.
Jamie’s beside him, grinning, and I bound across the room, then hug him close. “You took the polygraph,” I say, pulling back. Then I swat him across the shoulder. “You were an idiot not to before, even though I don’t think you should have had to in the first place.”
“He didn’t take the polygraph.” Damien is behind me, his hands on my shoulders. He eases closer, then wraps his arms around my waist. It’s a silent claim. A show for Ollie to make clear that I belong to Damien.
I smile wryly. I have no idea why he’s giving Ollie free rein, but things are definitely getting back to normal.
Then Damien’s words hit me, and I turn my head to look at him. “No lie detector? Then why?” I ask the last to Ollie, who shrugs.
“Your husband hasn’t told me. God forbid he should ever once loop me into anything important.”
“Didn’t seem necessary,” Damien says. “He didn’t refuse the polygraph because he had anything to do with Anne. He refused it because he doesn’t want us to know he’s working with the FBI.”
“What the hell?” Ollie says. “Who says?”
Damien flashes a crooked grin. “You did.”
“The hell I did.” Ollie pushes away from the sofa, standing up straight. “And what the fuck, anyway? If it was true, it would be a secret. And yo
u’re just going to announce it to the room?”
“You announced it,” Damien says, heading back into the kitchen.
Ollie looks at me, but I can only shrug, baffled.
“Fuck,” he says, then follows Damien. I go, too. As do Jamie, Ryan, Quincy, Dallas, and Charles Maynard.
Damien’s in there, calmly pouring a cup of coffee.
“For God’s sake, Damien,” I say, as he hands the cup to me. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Ask your friend.”
“I haven’t got a clue,” Ollie says. “FBI? I never said that, much less announced it to the world.”
Damien pours another cup, then goes to sit at the table. He glances down at the newspaper, presumably left there by Gregory. Then he looks up, sips his coffee, and puts the mug down. “You told us when you got here,” he says. “When you chastised us for handling a kidnapping without the police or the FBI. How would you know that if you weren’t in the middle of it?” He points to the coffeemaker. “Hazelnut. Help yourself.”
Ollie sags a little, but goes to the counter and pours himself coffee as Jamie and I stare after him, completely blown away.
“At least I know why you left the firm,” Maynard says. “How did this come about?”
“I can’t say, so please don’t press me.” He looks at me as he speaks, and I’m certain that the silent message is that he’ll fill me and Jamie in as soon as he can.
“Fair enough,” Damien says. “But I assume I’m not on the FBI’s radar anymore? And that you’re not hurting for cash?”
“Wait,” I say. “The FBI was looking at you? Why?”
Damien shrugs. “Ask him. I’m only speculating.”
Ollie rubs the bridge of his nose and looks so frustrated that I almost feel sorry for him. Even though it’s obvious that he was somehow involved with some investigation that was looking at Damien.
“As far as I know, you’re not on anyone’s radar at the moment,” Ollie says reluctantly. “You’re also still an asshole, even if you are a damn smart one.”
Damien’s expression doesn’t change, but I see a hint of a smile touch his eyes. “Good to see you again, too, Ollie.”
“Thank you,” I say to Damien later, after Jamie and I have pulled Ollie aside for welcome back hugs and a promise not to ask him about his secrets. At least not until Anne is back and things are settled. Now he’s with Moira in Lara’s room reading her a story, and I’m in the bedroom with Damien.
“I wasn’t going to keep him locked in a room once I realized the truth.”
He’s sitting on the foot of the bed, and I’m standing at the window, looking out at the now-dark sky.
I turn and go to him, straddling him on the bed, then pushing him backward until he’s flat on the mattress, my hands holding him down by the wrists. I feel his body shift and tighten under mine—arousal and fear and need all mixed up together. “I love you,” I say, then kiss him softly, the touch of my lips against his rousing me further. Making me crave his touch and the forgetfulness I know that it will bring.
“We only have a few hours left,” he says, his hands on my face, holding me still. “I don’t want you there.”
“I’ll be fine.” But the tremor in my voice betrays my fear.
“You will,” he says fiercely. “And so will Anne.”
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“I know.”
I swallow tears. “Make me forget, Damien. Please. For just a little while, make me forget.”
And Damien, thank God, pulls me close and makes the world go away.
With every car that goes by, I wonder if it’s the kidnapper driving it.
With every minute that passes, I wonder if he’s taken the money from the laundry room. If he’s freed my daughter.
I wonder if she’s happily watching cartoons. If she’s crying for her sister. For her mommy. For Daddy.
I wonder if she has any clue at all what’s going on, and I pray that she doesn’t. That there’s no fear. That there will be no scars. No horrible memories. No nightmares.
Lara believes that Anne is at Aunt Sylvia’s, and we were happy to let her believe it for now. We can worry about the truth when it’s time to face it.
When she’s home.
Please. Please let her be home soon.
I pull my windbreaker tighter around me and pace a tight circle on my corner. It’s the middle of the night, but with the ambient light from the nearby buildings, I can see well enough, even with the light rain that has started to fall. I face the traffic cameras and wonder if Damien is looking back at me. I hope he is. He should have dropped the money almost an hour ago. It’s almost one now.
Almost time for my vigil to be over.
For a brief time, we’d considered letting me have my phone or an earpiece so that I could communicate. He hadn’t forbidden that, after all.
But I rejected the idea, against Damien’s wishes. “He wants me helpless,” I said. “That’s the point. He’s not going to want me to be able to talk to my people.”
“I want you safe,” Damien had countered.
“Anne’s the one we’re worried about. And we’re going to follow the rules. Even rules he forgot to tell us about.”
I think he would have argued more, but Quincy had put his hand on Damien’s shoulder. “Buck up, mate. She’s right. You know she’s right.”
At the time, I’d felt vindicated. Now, I feel alone.
The kidnapper said I had to stay here until one in the morning, but I’d insisted that Damien stay away until one-fifteen. Just in case.
I glance at my watch. Twelve fifty-seven.
I pace some more, my gaze going to the rooftops around me. Is there really a sniper hiding up there, or is it all a ruse?
I think it’s the latter—I really do. But that’s not a theory I’m going to test.
A few more steps. Another inspection of my surroundings. Another glance at my watch.
One a.m.
I exhale in relief, then with frustration. Because now that the allotted time has passed, I don’t want to be here anymore.
I made the rules, though, and while Damien initially protested, it’s clear that he’s abiding by my wishes. So I spend fifteen interminable minutes pacing the sidewalk until, finally, I hear the low purr of a Ferrari as it slows to a stop beside me on the damp pavement.
I slide into the car, and he takes my hand, then pulls me into his arms and holds me tight as the wipers move in a steady rhythm. “Any word?” I ask, and feel him shake his head.
“Nothing,” he says, releasing me and putting the car into gear. “Dallas and Quincy say we might not hear until tomorrow morning.”
I nod, numb, and hug myself. I know we’re not in one of Lyle’s action movies, but the slow pace and uncertainty is weighing on me.
We’re silent during the drive, both lost in our fears. It’s almost two by the time we get back, but the inside of the house is still hopping. Jamie is passed out on the sofa, and as I step from the stairs onto the landing, I see Ryan drape a blanket over her.
Damien squeezes my hand, then detours toward the conference table, while I peel off to the right, toward the kitchen. More specifically, toward the coffee.
Someone’s brewed a fresh pot, and as I step around the corner, I draw in a deep breath, then end the sound on a sharp gasp as I come to a halt. “Oh.”
Sofia looks up at me from where she’s filling a tray full of mugs with fresh coffee. “Oh,” she says, as if mimicking me.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. She’s put on some weight, and it looks good on her. Before, she was too skinny, as if her problems had eaten away at her. Now, she has curves, and her face glows with health. Her hair is pulled back in a French braid, and a few colorful beads have been woven into the strands. Her eyes are wide, a mixture of fear and shock.
“I—I’m sorry,” she says.
I know she doesn’t mean for being out of her room. After Damien released Ollie, I told him that he c
ould do the same for Sofia. After all, she’d passed the polygraph. There was no reason to keep her a prisoner. No reason other than to keep her away from me.
“It’s okay,” I say, more out of politeness than because I really mean it. But the truth is that I’m too tired and too stressed to keep up any pretense. “You were civil to me two years ago when we brought Lara home. Then you start sneaking around? What the hell was I supposed to think? For that matter, what were you thinking?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about Damien.” She lifts her shoulder. “I needed help. He’s where I go.”
“He’s my husband.” I hear the ferocity in my voice.
“He’s my friend.” There’s equal power in hers.
“You tried to hurt me,” I snap.
She blinks and a tear runs down her cheek. “That was before. I swear, I’m better now. I was just hurting. The baby. I just…” She swallows. “I was just hurting.”
Fuck. I understand pain, especially where a child is concerned. But I also understand fear and self-preservation, and where Sofia is concerned, I will always be wary.
But she’s right, too. In some small way, she’s right. And I know that a part of Damien will always belong to her, as much as that might pain me.
So I walk to her, take one of the mugs, and then take a single step back. She watches me, wary, but doesn’t move.
“Next time, come in through the front door,” I say. And then, with my heart pounding in my chest, I turn away from her, and walk back into command central.
25
I’m weighted down with exhaustion, my eyes heavy, my muscles protesting. I’ve barely slept since this ordeal began, and the few minutes I did grab were fraught with nightmares that gave me no rest.
I’m both hot and cold, my gut clenching, my stomach burning with acid.
I’m the walking dead, barely keeping my shit together, so tired my vision is blurred.
But I can’t sleep.
I can’t bear to go to my bed, away from the people who are helping to bring back my daughter, away from the call that will tell us where to find her. And though I’ve tried closing my eyes on the couch in the living area, sleep refuses to come.
